


Trompeing the L'oeil

by Zabbers



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vault Porn (Doctor Who)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 19:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/pseuds/Zabbers
Summary: When the Doctor comes to her in the dark, Missy has things to show him.





	Trompeing the L'oeil

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to wicked_socks for solving the 'mature or explicit' question. (Explicit. Soft explicit, but explicit.)

It’s the absence in her eyes more than his presence in her mouth that really concerns him. But, as always, her tongue and her fingers know him too well, and already she’s manipulated him to attention, distracting him from the more important matter. 

Missy, on her knees to him, pressing a palm against the bone in his hip; the starched-cotton rustle of her underskirts, the sub-audible vibration in the back of her throat; gloves off, flies undone, skin skimming skin, _fingernails_...that’s him undone, never mind his clothes. 

She has him backed up to the forcefield, and it’s all he can do to hold himself upright against the onslaught of her touch--against the reaction of his body in response to her touch. At the flick of her tongue, his fingers splay, sparking five points of sharp heat and an accompanying ripple in the blue field that leaves an afterimage of stars in his mind’s eye. 

Missy chuckles. The inside of her mouth changes shape, compressing delicately, and the puff of breath escapes around him. It requires all of the Doctor’s self control to forget (for the moment) what he desires and to focus on what he should do with this window of opportunity, this moment of real connection, Missy more _there_ than she has been since he walked out on the vault after a fight two months ago. 

He puts his hand on her shoulder and urges her back onto her heels. 

As always when he feels her centre of balance shift in response, he worries that she’ll decide to hold on--only with her teeth. But, safely extracted, she looks up at him, smirking. 

He wipes his hand over his mouth, stalls.

He’s desperate to keep her smirking rather than revert to the intent, blank creature gazing at him before. Yet he’d be the last person to admit it, but he’s rubbish at funny. Anyway, she's laughing at him, not with him, which is fine, fine by him, as long as she stays engaged, rather than let her mind lock itself away. 

There is one thing he could say, he knows, to keep her. But he won't say it if he doesn't mean it. Just now, he doesn't mean it, or he can't, because it would spell disaster for their project--

_Mistress._

She dabs at the corner of her lips with the back of her hand. She's watching him, waiting. When he’s resolutely silent, she runs her knuckle across his flesh, digs into soft dips that make him shiver. He can't help it, he leans in to her, and there are her teeth, a happy flash like the ventral silveriness of a fish, before she grabs him by the hips and takes him in again.

He relaxes; she’s all right, they’re all right. She’s not allowed to be bad, but she _can_ be wicked.

He reaches to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, to rest his fingertips across her temple. 

She brushes him away. 

They’re fine-tuned to one another: they can’t really share the most casual of touches without some shallow telepathic interaction--Time Lord to Time Lord, iconoclast to iconoclast, jailer to jailer. And the contact they’re already sharing is not at all casual. But there’s something different about intention. About directing one’s thoughts at the other in an invitation to communicate. 

The noise of frustration that escapes him at the denial of that, somehow a treble moan deep in his chest, makes Missy chuckle again. At least someone here thinks this is funny. 

“Be good,” she admonishes. “If you _are_ good…”

She's on her feet in an instant. He's off-balance when she spins him around her, shoves him stumblingly away from the containment field, frogmarches him to the bank of windows, where she releases his arms just in time for him to catch himself against a ledge. She crowds in behind him, the entire front of her pressed close against his back. 

She has a way with his trousers; narrow as they are, she has them around his ankles without a struggle, stroking her way back up the inside of his thigh to stop proprietarily on his bottom. She reaches around him, she works her hand with a flick of her wrist. She’s still refusing the mental link as she pushes her leg up between his. 

At no other time in his life has he ever been so aware of the exact texture of woven wool. It's excruciating to be caught between stimulation and irritation, and Missy knows it. 

“This door,” she says, vicious, “goes nowhere. These windows...look at them.”

By now, he’s clinging to the faux handles, grateful they’re not trompe l’oeil, grateful not to be scrabbling fruitlessly at smooth painted wall. She squeezes, and he gasps; he needs her mind, but his body’s full of sensation, nerves lighting up and just _ending_ at his skin where he should be continuing outward. Where she should be meeting him with an arc like an electric charge across poles. What he’s feeling, what Missy’s doing to him is building up and up, with nowhere to go. 

“Look out the window.”

He breathes hard and forces himself to raise his head. It’s a white light, the constant meaningless glow it’s always been. This close, it’s so bright his eyes tear up.

Her hand stops and releases him. “There’s nothing.” 

Is this the terrifying emptiness of the Missy he’s trying to exorcise? The Doctor cranes his neck for a glimpse of a face that’s full of icy vitriol. Vitriol is good. Vitriol is not expressionlessness. 

“No--don’t turn around!” 

The clipped syllables bounce across the sharp surfaces of the vault. The Doctor obeys the Master’s command; just this once, he tells himself, unable to resist a hidden smile, his relief once again.

He shuts his eyes against the light. But it makes no difference, because Missy thrusts herself into his mind, now, _finally_ , and his head is filled with her, with that fiery fierce familiar brilliance, chasing him through a landscape of nerve endings, all ochre and hematite…

 

...and when the brightness clears to blackness, it’s years later; they’re still in the vault--again--and he doesn’t know if he initiated the memory, or if she did, or if it just appeared, analogous and allegorical. He’s on the floor, and it’s cold against his skin, but she’s straddling him, pinning him. Beneath her skirts, she's bare from the garters to the corset. He's panting, at her mercy, swimming up to the now in a haze of arousal. 

Missy’s message is clear: _You may have me in a cage, but I am in charge here--when I can be._

He won’t deny her that. And there’s nothing _bad_ about this, no. Not on her part. On his? 

He’d wanted to rage at a universe that had tumbled him slot by slot in its machine of impossible sacrifices; the one that had shaped him to so willingly give himself to it, as though his suffering didn’t matter. As though it didn’t hurt.

He’d come to Missy because he couldn’t take out the force of his frustration on anyone else, not even on Nardole. He came because he knew she would receive his shame, that voice in him that cried ‘unfair!’, and she would reflect his pain back at him, refract it, diffuse and defuse it. Because she wouldn’t tell anyone. Because she understood.

They were the same. 

In the dark, she’d lanced him. In the dark, his resentment spilling over them had made a snarling aggressor of him. She’d known just how to pierce his brooding with her taunts and challenges. She’d struck him and he’d bit her, clutching her arm as his sunglasses skittered away into obscurity. 

She’d suspended trying to be good, this once, to guide him through the bad.

Biting had turned into a bruising kind of kissing. And they’d wound up on the unforgiving floor, grasping each other’s faces, alight with memory.

Or maybe the message is that _it's bad here, in the dark, but I’ll show you a way out._

She rubs against him, wet and intent. She lifts herself high and slips suspended into place, circling, her face somewhere above his. He reaches around her back, his fingers digging in; he’s desperate to pull her into him, but she’s strong, and it’s only right she’s determined to draw out her dominance while she has the upper hand. 

“Oh, Doctor. You should see yourself.” 

“Don’t joke about that. It isn’t nice.”

“I’m not.” He can hear the grin of predatory pleasure in her voice. “Here. Allow me.”

Vision. Sight. His mind is flooded with image, and for a beat, his hearts are in his throat. He’s looking at himself: his eyes are Missy’s eyes. Or really, Missy’s eyes are his.

He's sweat-soaked and pallid, his hair plastered to his head. In the shadowed details of his skin, she can see the tiredness, the strain in him. But, face raised to her, his unseeing eyes are still following her every move, a flower in phototaxis, feeding from the sun. 

His mouth is open in a helpless circle. His pupils are pointlessly dilated. She lets her full weight down on him and he flushes darkly. He’s deep inside her and sees himself through her and he can’t entirely remember that he’s him and not her, watching himself, this ragged, rugged Time Lord, feel every move she makes against him and around him. 

He sees his chest heave. He sees his hips jerk as he tries to meet her. He circles his hands around her waist to help her establish a rhythm, and stares, unblinkingly steadfast, at his own face as he tips his head forward, curling himself inward toward her in concentration. 

The bright planes of his face are picked out in sensation; the contours of his body are illuminated by her attention. 

They’re gulping oxygen now, lungs full in narrow cages. They’re suffused with her sense of satisfaction, building up across their bodies. The Doctor who comes to her like this is a vulnerable, needy Doctor. The Doctor who comes to her in his hour of need wants what she can give him easily, wholeheartedly, without the struggles of the lessons he’s trying to teach her. 

_We make our light, even here, especially here, so let’s let it burn bright. Take my hand in the empty darkness; we’ll sear the shadows away._

_This is the field on the shoulder of the mountain below the sky._

They lace their fingers. Missy throws her head back, closing her eyes, but it’s all right, because the light is in their heads, across their minds, in their memories. It’s all they need to see. 

They run hand in hand through it. They shudder and they seize. They tustle and they tumble, they come together, colour pulsing through them in a succession of faces. They speak into those echoes: _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._


End file.
